


Sweet Surrender

by kaiz



Series: Retraining of Lucifer [2]
Category: Brimstone
Genre: D/s, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-03-01
Updated: 1999-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:16:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaiz/pseuds/kaiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The most perceptive lover always gives you exactly what you need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Surrender

The moment his come hit my face, I knew I'd displeased him. Saw it in the tense set of his shoulders, the uncompromising line of his sensuous lips. Quickly, I slipped my fingers from his ass and relinquished my firm grasp on his cock, shame replacing my fierce, momentary triumph.

I am a fool.

How many times had we tumbled upon this bed, limbs entwined, hearts pounding wildly, borrowed human flesh slicked with sweat and semen? And how many times had I knelt before him, head bowed, seeking to ease the ache of His abandonment in Ezekiel's compassionate, willing embrace? Illicit pleasure sought and received. Trust: genuine, yet uneasy -- dangerous for us both -- offered and accepted in this, our most private haven, sheltered from the prying eyes of heaven and hell.

And now, true to my seditious nature -- damn Him for that! -- I'd pushed too far, violated our Game's cardinal rules. Sacrificed my own pleasure -- *our* pleasure -- in one context to assert my angry dominion over him, body and soul, in another.

As I said, I am a fool.

*

_Earlier in the evening..._

After far too many hours spent 'rehabilitating' a few of the more rowdy denizens of hell, I squeezed into a body and dropped by his dingy little room to 'chat'. Just to keep him on his toes, to irritate him a bit, throw him off balance. At least, that's the fable I told myself. I figured that I'd earned it. After all, the bastard shot out my eyes and precipitously returned me to hell only a few weeks ago.

I am still pissed about that.

He stood at the window, shirtless, pensively watching the approaching sunset. The runes etched upon his skin were faintly luminescent.

"So Mr. Stone. O 'Detective Extraodinare'. Still recovering from your latest, rather ignominious defeat at the hands of Seth Macmillan?" I referred to a wily 19th century occultist turned serial killer who took a forgery of the 'Necromicon' far too seriously. Imagine his surprise when, upon fatally botching a so-called 'immortality spell', involving the sacrifice of young virgins, he wound up with private audience with me instead.

Ezekiel turned from the window and glared briefly. No doubt he was still touchy from my Saint Valentine's Day taunts. Not to mention sore from Seth's enthusiastic -- and rather painful -- attempts to decant Stone from his resurrected body. I'd never admit it to him, but Ezekiel had me quite worried during that skirmish.

Despite the glare, I could tell he was pleased to see me.

"I don't pay you to brood, Ezekiel," I snapped into his silence. "I pay you to return these brazen escapees to me."

Again, silence.

The son of a bitch was ignoring me! I grabbed his arm and spun him to face me. "What's the matter, Mr. Stone? Tired? Demoralized? Ready to end our little agreement?"

Looking me up and down, he quirked an eyebrow, "No." An echo of that devastating smile hovered upon his lips. "And you? Do you want to call a halt to our Game? Or are you just here to beg for another round?"

Beg? *Me* beg? The bastard!

Nonetheless, I flushed beneath his provocative stare and took an involuntary step backwards. Then another. Damn this responsive body! He stalked me across the room, his expression one of commingled humor, lust and deadly intent. My physical senses awakened, humming with sexual expectancy, disturbing my equilibrium.

"Still can't admit that you want this. Need this. Can you?" He asked at last, pinning me into the corner. The heat of his body was searing; he was dead, but not cold. So wonderfully warm and so wickedly adroit at using this body's responses against me.

"Need what, Mr. Stone?" I retorted loftily. "I am the ruler of hell. I *need* nothing!"

"Mmmm," he said, deliberately licking his lips, handsome face inches away from mine. "On the contrary," his whisper caressed my lips. "You most definitely need *this*." And then, he took my mouth, ravaging me with talented lips and tongue. Pleasant sensations washed along my skin, evoking memories of other loving 'hands' that had created, nurtured and punished me. Weak-kneed, slumped against the wall, I moaned desperately as arousal sang through my blood, as I became reacquainted with the sensual responses of this body of living clay.

After a time, he pulled back, breathing heavily, hands carding my hair, cupping my chin. He tilted my face upwards and I braced for another searing kiss.

"Ezekiel, I don't think -- " I began breathlessly, desperately.

"That's right," he affirmed, eyes dark with lust. "You *don't* think. Not here. Not now. *I* think; *you* serve."

Tearing a page from my own book, he disappeared our clothes; they are, after all, merely a trick of light and electrons. I gasped, and in an eyeblink, found myself on my back on the bed, with my cock in his mouth.

For long moments he teased me, with hands, lips, tongue, and teeth. He licked the length of my cock, poked my hungry hole, pinched my nipples until they ached and I writhed.

"Please!" I moaned uncontrollably, when he withdrew his mouth, leaving me wild-eyed and disheveled, clinging unwillingly to orgasm's precipice.

I am so pathetic.

He laughed and shook his head. "My pleasure before yours." His lovely chuckle vibrated the length of my body, loosening my limbs. Were I still standing, I would have crumpled unceremoniously to the floor.

Then, he straddled me, sat on my chest and shoved his perfectly formed cock down my throat. I'd taken a liberty or two when I'd resurrected him.

"Suck me now," he said, voice roughened with passion. "But remember, I want to finish in that perfect ass of yours." And then, he began to thrust.

As he thrust into my mouth, as I worked him with my hands and my tongue, mutinous thoughts arose. My undoing, as usual. The day's lingering anger and frustration, combined with my annoyance at Ezekiel's insolence seeped into my enjoyment of his pleased moans, his loving touches of my hair, his powerful, knowing hand upon my cock. I rule hell, damn him! I'm not some rent-boy to scramble anxiously to do his bidding! He belongs to *me*! I could so easily force my will upon him, rend and crush his spirit. There are so many ways I could torment and torture him. Eternally.

If he only knew!

And, in my anger, my acid rage, I forgot the pleasure he'd tacitly promised me, forgot our agreement, forgot than he knew me with an intuition and intimacy that would have stolen my breath had I normally possessed lungs to breathe. I kept him moaning, on the edge, for what seemed like hours. And finally, as I milked his cock with one hand, as I licked and sucked, I wickedly stabbed two fingers from the other into his ass, unerringly finding his prostate.

He glared down at me once, convulsed and then came, shouting, spilling his semen, hot, slick and burning with hellfire, across my face. For a single triumphant moment, my anger was assuaged. And then, the disappointment in his eyes struck me hard, like a fist to the belly.

As I said, I am a fool.

A fool with poor impulse control.

*

Now, seated on the edge of the bed, Ezekiel looked over to where I sprawled across the pillows. He patted his thighs. "Come here."

Angry pride warred with shame and I seethed inwardly. I *hate* this act. Mostly. It has always evoked complicated, unsettling memories.

He watched calmly, with a slight smile as I wrestled with my unruly emotions.

"Come here," he repeated softly, a bare hint of steel in his voice.

Closing my eyes, trembling with conflict, on the knife's edge between rage and consent, domination and submission, I slid towards him on my knees. He gripped my wrist firmly and sharply pulled me face down onto his lap. Furious and humiliated, I squirmed. His warm, rough palm smoothed over my ass cheeks, held me firmly against his knee.

"Count them for me, Morning Star." His tone was even, dryly amused. He had *known* I'd disobey him, the bastard.

Naked and vulnerable, turned over his knee, I pressed my face into the rumpled bed clothes and counted.

"One." Smack.

"Two." Smack.

And so on.

Trembling across his lap, my aching cock clenched tightly between his thighs, I knew I'd earned more than the light, stinging, swats across my narrow human backside. Teasing strokes that inflamed my memory, left me aching for the holy wrath -- *His* wrath -- that had flayed my spirit, lacerated my heart, dominated and dictated my existence so many millennia ago.

I can still clearly recall the agony and fear as He tore me asunder, scattering my atoms to the galaxy's far corners to vibrate desperately, abandoned, aching for reunion. There I waited, screaming soundlessly for my brothers, my Creator, terrified of dissolution, of final oblivion. Once I'd learned my 'lesson', I was lovingly reassembled and then comforted with the briefest touch of His essence.

Until my next transgression, of course.

Those memories haunt me still, in any form -- human, animal or spirit -- I take; there is no rest for me from the echo of that torment.

Had I had flesh then, His mark would be scoured across my back and shoulders indelibly. Instead, I carry those hard won tokens of Eternal love close, hidden, cherished. After all, there are some advantages offered by a discorporate existence besides immortality: bruises don't show.

And yet, though I surely deserve it, though I provoke him at every turn, Ezekiel refuses to whip me. Always refuses. Refuses to yield to his darker urges. Refuses to do more than shake his head with disappointment, withdraw his approval and then lovingly warm my ass to a rosy blush. A color he claims to like.

Abruptly, my free-floating rage and rebellion coalesced, found murderous focus. Damn him! How dare this doomed human slave, this vile, lowly creature think to discipline me, insult me -- the First Created -- with these stinging lashes, this petty, contemptuously meager punishment.

As I struggled internally, my rage overflowed and my human form began to fray. I could hear the Void's seductive, chaotic winds singing in my ears. The outlines of the room blurred and began to stream away, his voice, the strength of his hands my sole anchor.

"Remember, Luciel," he called softly, sadly, into the raging chaos wrought by my disintegration. "Your choice. You can always say the Word; call His name and this ends here and now."

Choice. *My* choice.

One Word. One Word only, and I'd be again as I was meant to be: proud, arrogant, cold. Alone. Never again to bend my head to anyone. Secure in my dominion over hell and Stone. Ruling him forever, deftly, with mercy enough to make my twist of the knife all the more sweet when I finally betrayed him. As, of course, I would.

Betrayal is my nature. Isn't it?

And the moment spun out, ruthlessly revealing the other consequences of that choice. One single Word, yes, and I'd also forever lose the right to experience the compelling warmth engendered by his company. Never again to experience the bright cascade of sparks generated by our continual conflict, tempered with no little affection.

"Let go," he murmured into the maelstrom of my indecision. "I promise I'll catch you. Keep you safe." The warmth and concern in his voice stunned me.

Suspended between cohesion and dissolution, between the bleak memory of Greater love and the possibility of unconditional human love, I realized that I'd never before had this choice. Had never known I could be as I was -- as *He* had created me -- and yet still be cared for, respected.

Perhaps one day, even cherished.

"Please." My human voice was choked, overlaid with trembling harmonics of my greater Voice. I fiercely asserted my will and shrank, condensing into flesh. "Continue."

"Pleasure is a far better teacher than pain," he said with approval, after a slight pause. Then, he parted my cheeks and shoved a gelled finger deep in my ass before withdrawing for the next smack; I couldn't control my pleasured scream.

And as he continued my discipline, and as I counted, I had the strangest, most unexpected experience.

Each stroke across my ass was so careful, so loving, that unbidden, tears seared my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. *My* cheeks. *Me*. The ruler of hell, author of infinite torments and sublime cruelty, reduced to tears over gentle, heartfelt, generously offered discipline in lieu of force and unyielding coercion.

Not one of my brothers had ever offered half as much. And no lover had ever been so honestly unintimidated and amused by my rages, my idiocyncracies, my unvarnished self.

And so, amidst the tumult of my emotions, in the fiery crucible of his promise, my sullen rage transmuted, like lead into gold, into the sweetest of surrenders.

"Shh," he soothed, rubbing the small of my back gently. "It's okay. Only a few more." And swallowing tears, emptied of ancient anger and fear, I counted out the remaining strokes.

*

He raised me from his lap and gathered me into his embrace. Exhausted, I lay in his arms, head resting upon his shoulder. My sore ass brushed against his thighs and my breath caught.

"Promise me you'll try harder," he said softly into my hair, stroking my back slowly.

"Yes, I promise," I sighed against his sweaty neck, feeling light and curiously cleansed. Weakly, silently, I both cursed and blessed him: for his intuition, his insight, honed nearly to perfection by decades of sparring with the ruthless, the evil; those like me. For knowing exactly what I need.

"Lie down."

I was shifted to the bed and turned onto my stomach, my legs spread wide. The mattress dipped slightly as he settled between my thighs and considerately slipped a pillow under my hips, lifting my ass for his attentions.

Rough gun calluses skimmed across my sensitive skin as his hands kneaded taut muscles, calmed my lingering shivers and soothed my stinging backside. Face turned to the side, partially obscured by the curtain of my hair, I sighed deeply, enjoying the sensations. Eyes half-closed with pleasure, I watched silently, bonelessly, as the ruddy sunset swiftly became indigo, through the open window.

Heated kisses trailed down my spine and wet heat painted my skin, swirling around my tailbone. I moaned softly and shifted to accommodate my painful erection. Fire and ice skated along my skin as he spread me open and swept down my cleft with his rough tongue. I shivered deliciously as he gnawed tenderly upon the sensitive rim of my anus, slowly licked the sensitive flesh, and then delved deep, dilating me.

Warm hands guided me to my knees and he entered me slowly, with exquisite care. Despite his occasional anger, his occasional need to fuck me hard, he never forced me. Never consummated this act in pain.

At his urging, I rose from my hands, closed my eyes, and leaned back into his arms. Legs spread wide, shifting his smoldering length deeper, I rested my head against his shoulder, gasping quietly as he caressed my balls and stroked my cock. The runes on his chest, wrought by my hand, etched in painful detail, seared my skin and flared along my ribs as he embraced me. With fingers twined in mine, resting over my heart, he moaned sensuously, writhing deep inside me, raining loving kisses upon my neck.

And when, at the moment of climax, as I was filled with the heat of his passion, as I spilled my own into his claiming hand, my tattered, painful memory of Greater love crumbled to ash. Upheld by loving arms, I relinquished the ancient pain and surrendered to the future's uncertainty.

*

Night had fallen and a slight, warm breeze sighed through the open window, ruffling the moth-eaten drapes. In the circle of his arms, his chest against my back, I quietly watched a rectangle of light from the street lamp as it creeped along the wall. The warmth of his exhalations teased the short hairs on my neck.

Sometimes, I wondered what he honestly thought of this arrangement, our Game. Wondered how he knew to play it so well, where he'd acquired his devastating virtuosity. Wondered how he felt about having sex with a man; although I am not, precisely speaking, male. What he felt about fucking the most evil of spirits.

In darker moments, I also wondered if he thought about his beloved wife as we satisfied our carnal desires. Or, if he secretly, triumphantly gloated. Wondered if his love and affection was real, or an illusion borne of my millennia of anguished loneliness and exile.

I have carefully never probed his thoughts to confirm or deny my suspicions; I doubt that I ever will.

"Sleepy?" he asked, tightening his arms briefly, stroking my belly with a strong, callused hand.

I shook my head silently. Sleep was neither possible for me, nor required for him. Nor, strictly speaking, was breathing, although he persisted in maintaining the fiction. Nostalgia, I suppose.

Restless with my thoughts, after a moment, I turned in his arms, to face him. He raised up on one elbow and looked down at me, fingers gently brushing the hair back from my forehead. In the near darkness, to my greater Sight, the runes, my mark upon him, sparkled along his torso, reflecting in his eyes like the starry night sky. Some day, the last of those runes would dissolve and I'd release him from my service. And face another bleak eternity alone.

"One of these days, you're going to admit that you like this. That I give you what you need." His voice was low and warm in the darkness.

And, in this time, this protected space only, I would admit the truth; to myself, if not to him. "Perhaps," I smiled wryly. "But, I guarantee you'll have to work for it."

He laughed and I thrilled to the rich sound, answering with my own. My reawakening passion tingled through my limbs, filling my cock as he rolled me to my back and slipped a knee between my thighs.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," he whispered, and leaned down to steal my smile with a kiss.

_Finis._

**Author's Note:**

> This series features domination, submission, discipline, and blasphemy. Each was written for 'First Line' challenges on the slashkink mailing list. Thanks to Ashtareth for betaing and Rosa for convincing me that I should write a sequel. This story is for Rosa, for her enthusiastic support.


End file.
